


I just wanna take our relationship to the next level

by orphan_account



Series: I mean, unless you want [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, I mean it's basically just crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-17 11:44:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15460656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mycroft is mysteriously missing, Jim is back from the dead dressing like a rich divorcee, and Sherlock starts to put some pieces together.





	1. Chapter 1

 

“It’s gone to voicemail again, John.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Voicemail, _again._ ”

 

“Right, well, isn’t he a busy man, your brother?” John asks from his chair, tapping away on his laptop. Usually, it put a smile on Sherlock’s face to see the slow and ineffective way John would hack away at a keyboard, using single fingers instead of proper touch typing. It was a quirk, much like Sherlock’s own need to play the violin at 3 in the morning to induce an epiphany if one would not come itself, and it was endearing.

 

But no, today, Sherlock was otherwise preoccupied.

 

“He is _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock explains with exasperation-disgust-impatience. “He is never _busy_ , he is too _lazy_ to be _busy_ , and more importantly, too important. He pays _other people_ to be _busy.”_

 

John stops tapping for a moment to contemplate Sherlock’s train of thought.

 

“Maybe he’s in the tube, and lost service?”

 

Sherlock’s expression is right appalled.

 

“Just a joke,” he adds, to clarify.

 

“I have tried,” Sherlock’s voice booms now, as he jumps to his feet to pace the living room, gesturing incisively to punctuate his logical sequence, “texting him, a total of 33 times. For a man who so much likes to _keep tabs on_ me, it is astounding that he should not answer a single one of them.”

 

“Not by text, not by phone, not through one of his horrid closed-circuit cameras, not even via messenger,” Sherlock recites, voice clipped.

 

“I thought, fine, he has told me one time too many that he prefers to call, not text. So I call him. I call him once, I call him twice, and nothing. No hang-ups, just nothing.”

 

“Oh, this is Mycroft Holmes,” Sherlock says in a silly voice that might have been a caricature of a too-posh accent but sounded nothing like his brother nonetheless. “I’m having tea with the Prime Minister and Queen and I’m too busy to take my own messages. Leave it for the dial tone!”

 

“What is that voice you’re doing, Sherlock? Is that Mycroft’s voice? Your impressions need work.”

 

“The _point is,_ John, that Mycroft has gone MIA. Off the grid. He has disappeared.”

 

“I know what MIA means, I was in the military.”

 

“He’s gone, John, gone! Disappeared into thin air!”

 

John sighs, long and deep, and then opens his mouth. He stops himself, sighs again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He tries to start yet once again, and stops. He takes his laptop and sets it neatly on the table beside him, folds his hands, rearranges them to set each one on the arms of his chair, then changes his mind and folds them again.

 

“Sherlock,” he says.

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“Sherlock, how long ago was this?”

 

“I just _said - “_

 

“No, I mean, how long would you say Mycroft has ‘gone missing.’”

 

Sherlock checks his phone.

 

“Eight hours.”

 

Well, eight hours was. Better than John thought. Better than Mycroft having been busy an hour and Sherlock getting overly impatient for some bizzarro reason. But eight hours was forty hours shy of a missing persons report, and for good reason.

 

“Have you thought to, oh, I don’t know, try visiting Mycroft in person?”

 

Sherlock scoffs, and gives John a look that clearly reads _no comprendo._

 

“Like, going to his office? At least ringing his office? Or his home? He does work a strange shadowy job where it’s not completely unlikely he’s done odd hours. Perhaps he’s sleeping off an all-nighter, God knows you’ve done it.”

 

“What are you saying?”

 

“I’m saying, Sherlock, have you just gone and checked in on Mycroft? Seen with your own eyes he’s _‘disappeared’?_ ”

 

Sherlock looks confused.

 

“No, of course not. Why would I want to see him?”

 

John sighs, for a really long time, and then grabs his jacket.

 

“Come on, get your coat. Let’s go see Mycroft. I’m sure he’ll be really, _really_ pleased.”

 

.

 

“What do you mean he’s not here?”

 

Even John looks incredulous. He turns to get Sherlock’s reaction, which is blank and akin to what John was describe as a 404 page on a website. Error, error. Response not found.

 

“He’s _not here_ ,” Anthea, or whatever her name was, said, the words sharp in her high register and careless air of distaste. She says this all very slowly, as if she were paid by the second and vindictive about it.

 

At their combined confused silence, she even glances up from her phone briefly to roll her eyes.

 

“Would you like to make an appointment?” she asks.

 

“I’m - I’m his _brother_ ,” Sherlock sputters.

 

“I know,” Anthea replies, words clipped. “I have you under surveillance. Would you _like_ to _make_ an _appointment_?”

 

“Well, where is he?” Sherlock asks belated and urgently, to Anthea’s droll stare. “If he’s not here?”

 

“Classified,” she says.

 

“When is he coming back?”

 

“Class-i-fied.”

 

Sherlock glares at her with as much venom as he can muster.

 

“And what do _you_ do when he’s away?”

 

Anthea sets down her phone and sits back in the high-backed chair, looking Sherlock dead in the eye from behind her big, mahogany desk for the first time since he walked in.

 

Then she slowly raises her arms, each extended palm-up on either side of her, and hidden speakers come to life, blaring the chorus of Beethoven’s 9th, Ode to Joy, as the consulting detective and his companion stalk out of the office waiting room in defeat.

 

.

 

A trip to Mycroft’s home is no more illuminating.

 

They try knocking, ringing the doorbell, and then (well, first, if Sherlock had had his way) breaking through the garage window.

 

The climb in is easy for Sherlock, with his ridiculous legs. But for his much shorter companion, there is some trouble.

 

Half-way through wriggling his way up and into the cracked-open window, John Watson has an epiphany.

 

“Sherlock!” he says. “Don’t you have a key to this place?”

 

More squirming, and then he _plunks_ down into the garage and breathes a sigh of relief.

 

“Well,” Sherlock says sheepishly, not looking at John. “Yes. But. In our haste I forgot I’d left it at the flat.”

 

John just brushes the dust off and resigns himself to another one of Sherlock Holmes’s misadventures.

 

“Hold on,” John says, senses tingling.

 

“We don't have much time.”

 

“No, hold _on,_ Sherlock Holmes,” John insisted, because he was onto something now.

 

Sherlock fidgeted.

 

“What?” he asked in his low baritone.

 

“What'd we need him for, anyhow?”

 

“Hm?” Sherlock responds, evasive.

 

“What are we looking for Mycroft _for?”_ John enunciates clearly. When no answer is immediately forthcoming, and at Sherlock's confused expression, John sighs and holds out his palm.

 

“What did you text him, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock frowns, and fishes his phone put his pocket.

 

“This,” he says, plunking the phone down in John’s hand.

 

8:43 a.m., a text to _Fatcroft_ (as listed in the phone) is one photo of a pigeon, laughably obese (or, more politely put, “full-feathered”), with a funny pattern to its plumage that made it look to be wearing a little waistcoat. The bird also sports a delightful curl to a small feather on the very top of its head. John snorts even before he reads the follow-up caption sent by Sherlock (“Look its you”).

 

Sherlock discretely turns away in a poor effort to hide his own smirk.

 

“Funny, isn't it?” Sherlock can't resist asking. “Uncanny resemblance.”

 

John clears his throat to cover a laugh.

 

“Can't imagine why you didn't get an immediate response,” he mutters, following Sherlock into his brother's home.

 

.

 

Mycroft is not there, and, by the looks of it (and Sherlock’s estimation) he has not been there for over eight hours. Closer to 12, even.

 

“Something sinister is afoot, John,” Sherlock intones ominously.

 

“I dunno, Sherlock, maybe he’s just gone on a trip. A classified one.”

 

Sherlock spins then, gesturing dramatically to the decor and knick-knacks, et cetera.

 

“Gone on a _trip_ , John? Just look at this sorry excuse of a cover up!”

 

John looks, he really looks. But all he sees is the house of a meticulous man who has stepped out.

 

“He's probably been kidnapped John. Next thing we know the kingdom will be hit up for ransom for his fat arse. They could be torturing him in some unsanitary basement this very moment. Or worse, realizing he won't divulge the secrets he holds, they've already disposed of him in the river.”

 

“That's  -”

 

“This soap has been left out. The thermostat has not been manually readjusted. The coat hanging by the door is _clearly_ -”

 

His words are cut short by the front door opening. For a second, John thinks it's going to be Mycroft at the door, there to put all their (Sherlock’s) crazy theories to rest.

 

But no, the figure is too short to be Mycroft. The man is humming a jovial show tune quite unlike what he imagines Mycroft's tastes to run to. And he is wearing an enormous fur coat he doubts Mycroft would ever don.

 

The man steps into view and closes the door behind him, and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson once again come face to face with Jim Moriarty.

 

.

 

“Oh,” Moriarty says, looking slowly from Sherlock to John to Sherlock, as if he, too, didn't expect to see his nemesis duo, but handling the occurrence as if he’d run into a distant colleague at the bank or supermarket.

 

“Hellooo,” he says, before smoothing down the fur of his coat. He sniffs a bit, shifts his duffle bag from one arm to the other, takes off his dark sunglasses.

 

He's _fidgeting._

 

John is sure for their part they look positively murderous. Twin pillars of outrage and justice.

 

“You're alive,” John accuses.

 

“Um? Yep,” Moriarty answers, sounding confused, blinking owlishly.

 

“Don't think you're going to get away with whatever you did to my brother,” Sherlock says darkly.

 

“Ehm. What?”

 

“Jim Moriarty, back from the dead,” Sherlock says. He laughs at the irony of it all. John twists his lips. Dark humor, that. And so unlike Mycroft to have fallen to the same temptation twice, first with the lure of information and now, now, whatever this was.

 

“Sorry, who is that?” Moriarty says. He's completely unconvincing.

 

“Oh come now,” John says, tone vicious, “ _Jimbo_. You can do better than that.” He could. They'd seen it.

 

“I don't know her?” Moriarty says, in that same Irish lilt. He hadn't even thought to disguise his voice this time. And he was still dressed as sharply as ever. Designer suit, black on black, and his odd fur coat.

 

He toys with something in his hand and for the first time John notices his fingers are covered in rocks. The shiny expensive kind, that come in the form of jewelry.

 

“Oh my God,” he murmurs, mind careening toward an epiphany. He doesn't want to say it, he really doesn't, but if Sherlock doesn't then he is going to _have to._

 

“What have you done to my brother?” Sherlock repeats, this time in a choked sort of whisper that lets John know they're thinking more or less along the same lines.

 

.

 

_“Meow!”_

 

Moriarty squirms, and then a fat, furry orange creature emerges from the horrid mink coat he had draped over an otherwise lovely - stunning, really - elegantly cut black suit.

 

Sherlock stares with fresh horror.

 

The deductions are fast coming but the conclusions to which they point are so terrible Sherlock has to slam the mental brakes on this onslaught of information.

 

He blinks rapidly, courageously trying to keep himself together (for Mycroft's sake. It's what he would have wanted.) and comes to four possible theories as to what all this might mean.

 

  1. Moriarty has come back from the dead, seduced and married Mycroft only to murder him shortly thereafter, and has now taken over the Holmes fortune, spending it on gaudy accessories.
  2. Moriarty is an evil sorcerer who faked his death and is now back for revenge - starting with Mycroft, who Moriarty had turned into a cat.
  3. ??????????? Time travel??????
  4. Mycroft has simply stepped out for a perfectly safe but confidential appointment that had little to do with Moriarty, and knew all along Moriarty had faked his death, hence the criminal being comfortable enough to show up at the bureaucrat’s home.



 

Sherlock’s mind stutters to a halt.

 

He stares at the cat. He stares at Jim. He stares at the cat again.

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asks in a strangled voice.

 

Moriarty hugs the cat to his chest and gives Sherlock an offended look.

 

 _“Despearaux,”_ he corrects, despite its irrelevance.

 

“Moriarty, unhand my brother this instant,” Sherlock shoots back, regaining his footing.

 

Moriarty stares at him like he’s crazy. “This is _not_ your brother.”

 

“Of course it’s not,” Sherlock says (to John’s relief, he wasn’t sure where the detective had been going with that to be quite honest). “But Moriarty, you fiend, you’ve ensnared his heart and no doubt left him defenseless somewhere, somehow, and I will not stand for it.”

 

Moriarty’s you’re-crazy-and-I’m-incredulous look still hasn’t left his face.

 

“I know he’s known you were alive - possibly even from the beginning. He must have had - or _thought he had_ his reasons, but I know now _yours_ were entirely duplicitous. You’ve seduced him for your own nefarious ends and - “

 

“Okay,” Moriarty says, nodding along as if Sherlock’s explanation makes sense. The disbelieving look melts off his face, replaced by the cunning, capricious man they knew so well.

 

“Yooooou’ve caught me,” he says with a little shrug, a little smile. “I married your brother for his money, took out a biiiiiig life insurance policy, and then - oops - switched his meds. He had a heart attack in the middle of sex - at least it was a fun way to go.”

 

John looks like he’s ready to bleach his eyes and ears, but Sherlock’s righteous indignation is bubbling over. He is a practical angel of fury and justice and all those things at the moment, ready to smite Moriarty with th sort of vengeance only a younger sibling understands.

 

But before he can speak - _“Mrrow!”_

 

The cat - Despereaux - leaps out of Moriarty’s arms, startling them all, and the lock at the front door begins to turn. The ginger tom scratches furiously at the door until it opens, and then leaps for the long legs that make their entrance.

 

In walks Mycroft Holmes, looking satiated, well-rested, and positively radiant.

 

“Mrow!”

 

“Oh, hello,” he greets the cat, who is batting at him with such excitement he considers bending down to pet it, or even pick it up, before dismissing the silly thought immediately.

 

His happy mood is stymied 0.4 seconds later when he sees the frozen shocked expressions of, left to right, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Jim Moriarty. He looks each person over, one by one, and then stops on Jim.

 

He frowns.

 

Jim throws up his arms and throws on a grin and jumps into character immediately.

 

“Honey!” the man says angling for a hug that Mycroft successfully blocks by literally holding him at arm’s length. “You’re back!”

 

Mycroft then looks next to Sherlock.

 

“You were dead,” Sherlock says in a rasp.

 

“What.” He turns to John.

 

“He um. Sent you a funny text,” the man answers unhelpfully.

 

Mycroft looks them all over again and - it clicks.

 

“Ugh. Jim,” Mycroft says, trying oh, so very hard not to let the stress and disappointment of _reality_ crash the unexpectedly _luxuriant_ spa day he just had. “You left the garage window open again, didn’t you?”

 

Jim’s jaw drops.

 

“N-no…”

 

“It’s how our nuisance of a cat got in, and it’s why Sherlock and John are here. Tell me that isn’t completely accurate. Go on,” Mycroft says, punctuating his point with a tiny sigh. Jim just pouts.

 

“I didn’t _forget to close the window_ , I left it! On purpose!”

 

“To _what_ purpose?”

 

It’s fascinating, John thinks, watching the two “”very”” dangerous men argue like an old married couple, back and forth, like a ping-pong match.

 

“I was _hoping_ Sherl would come, and then, see, dressed in black - I’m mourning your death -”

 

“My _death_.”

 

“The divorce! I’m playing out the divorce stage!”

 

At this point, Sherlock’s soul has left his body, and his body is ready to leave the building. He turns slowly toward John, securing eye contact, telepathically pleading for help. John slowly shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to get past the bickering couple to the door either.

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes.

 

“I should have known when you _insisted_ I take a day to - what was that silly term?”

 

 _“Self-care_ isn’t _silly_.”

 

“- that you only suggested it to mess with my brother’s head. I should have known, Jim.”

 

“Not _just_ ! Both! Both! Not _just!_ And, I’m trying to take our relationship to the next level!”

 

“By insinuating you’ve married and divorced me for my wealth?” Mycroft asks, picking up the begging cat without realizing it, cuddling the fat thing close.

 

“Yes!” Jim exhales, as if they finally all get it.

 

The four of them stand very still, Jim and Mycroft’s eyes locked together, neither giving in to the argument, and John and Sherlock stuck in odd positions, frozen, hoping their inching toward the front door had gone unnoticed.

 

“Sherlock, John,” Mycroft says icily, eyes not leaving Jim’s defiant gaze, “would you like to stay for dinner?”

 

“Nnnnnnnn...no…….” Sherlock answers uncertainly through his teeth.

 

“See, Jim, you’ve alienated my own brother. My own brother! What with these _dramatics_ of yours, and - “

 

Sherlock turns to John with the utmost urgency.

 

“Quick,” he hisses. “We have to make a run for it, and don’t look back! Ready - “

 

And then he bursts out the door without another look at John.

 

John, who makes the mistake of taking a second look at the couple, and ends up with the _sheer misfortune_ of seeing their steely stalemate turn into a _fond?_ and _soft??_ look and -

 

a hand on an arm and -

 

\- leaning in and

 

Oh god, he was getting out of there.


	2. Extras

SEVERAL DAYS LATER

 

_Undisclosed recipients;_

_  
_ _Hey_ _  
_ _Hey._ _  
_ _  
_ _Can you send me that photo?_ _  
_ _  
_ _It's Jim._ _  
_   
_Jim from the pool._

  


Sherlock scoffs, glaring at the ignored text messages on his phone. _Jim from the pool_. As if he were some friendly colleague or acquaintance.

  


_What photo? SH_

  


_The bird!!!_

_Myc deleted it._

  


_Don't call him that. SH_

  


_Sherl! Are you jealous?_

  


_Don't call me that. SH_

  


Sherlock sends the bird photo anyway. It’s too good to keep to himself. He’ll have it framed, for Mycroft’s Christmas present. He’d have to thank Henry, a member of his homeless network, yet again for this marvelous snap. The man truly had an artist’s eye.

 

The phone pings again and Sherlock checks to see that Jim’s sent him a photo of a cat in return. The ginger monstrosity he’d had hiding in his coat was, in the photo, sitting atop the coat, covered in what looked like expensive gold chains and possibly a stolen ruby pendant, donning a baffled expression.

  


_I prefer dogs. SH_

  


_Um? Why? Cats are obviously superior?_

  


_You shut your whore face, Moriarty. SH_

  


Jim blinks at the dramatic shift in tone via text and taps out a reply - _WOW, unnecessary_.

 

“Huh. Sherlock really is a dog person, isn’t he?”

 

Mycroft doesn’t bother looking up from his files to answer.

 

“Mm. Father was allergic, so we never had one though,” he says.

 

Jim considers it, and then deletes the message he'd just typed out, instead grabbing his pair of aviators and setting to convincing Despereaux to hold still and wear them. He sends Sherlock a photo of a cool cat completely unfazed by Sherlock’s completely unnecessary comment.

  


.

  


THE FATEFUL MORNING IN QUESTION

 

Jim plops down in an armchair, sideways, so he has a perfect view of Mycroft at the dining table with his grapefruit and newspaper. Still on that silly diet, then. Jim imagines Mycroft as a bored suburban housewife with rollers in his hair and velour trackpants and a powerwalking cul-de-sac group. Grapefruits for breakfast and green juice for lunch.

 

“You look _awful_ ,” Jim says, eyes wide an earnest.

 

Mycroft looks up. Mycroft himself looks put together without even a hair out of place at barely 6:30 in the morning. Jim is the one who has bags under his eyes and is wearing mismatched slippers, cuddling yet another cat in his lap, looking worse for wear. He’d shown up at 4 in the morning from who-knows-where, yawning and half-asleep.

 

Mycroft gives him a pointed look.

 

“Have you looked in the mirror yet?”

 

“Hey. Not nice.”

 

“Where did you get that thing?”

 

It takes Jim a moment. He looks confused, then looks down at the cat.

 

“Despereaux? You forgot our baby?”

 

“That, Jim, is not Despereaux.”

 

Jim looks down again.

 

“Despereaux is a ginger tom, Jim. This cat is brown.” Mycroft starts to look a little worried. Just how many hours had Jim been up? “And might I remind you, Despereaux belongs to the neighbors. His name is probably something like Snugglefuss.”

 

He’s right, Jim realizes. The cat is brown. He sneezes, and rubs his nose.

 

Mycroft sighs, and walks over to set a little bottle of allergy drops on the end table beside the armchair.

 

Jim takes the bottle, and pets the cat.

 

"I think I'll name you Basher," he says with a sigh. Jim holds the creature up to his face. "After my childhood pet. God rest his tiny, little soul."

 

It boops Jim on the nose good naturedly.

 

"You don't need to pretend Colonel Moran is dead, Jim," Mycroft says, taking a seat and going back to his paper. "We know exactly where he is and what he's up to."

 

Jim frowns. He doesn't like how Mycroft keeps derailing his plans. Especially when they're so well thought out. Like this spa day diversion he was cooking up. He’d been planning it for weeks.

 

Did the people of England think such a peaceful, crime-free day was a mere luck? Idiots, all of them. Jim had to clear his own schedule for days to make sure he had the wherewithal to reorganize crime into neat little calendar boxes, and all of this, because he was gearing up for a multi-tiered scheme and grand reveal.

 

.

 

Tier one: all was well, and Mycroft could be convinced to take a day off.

 

“You should take a day off,” Jim suggests, propping his elbow up on the back of the chair, head leaning into his hand.

 

Mycroft gives him a funny look.

 

“I could say the same for you.”

 

“Aw, that's sweet. But no, I've got big plans today.”

 

Mycroft purses his lips. Jim doesn't look like he's in a state for any plan.

 

“I'll take a nap,” Jim says, rolling his eyes. He won't.

 

“Anyyways,” he says, sliding into the seat across from Mycroft at the table, letting Basher reign over the armchair. “Spa day?”

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow.

 

“Alone? You must be planning something utterly nefarious, to try to get me out of my office and away from modes of communication. A spa, really. Do you think me so self-indulgent?”

 

“You’re kidding, right?”

 

Mycroft looks bashful at that and Jim is filled with momentary glee at the melting of his facade, before Jim reins himself in and sets his mind back on track, back on the goal. He reaches for Mycroft's hand and rubs his thumb across the palm of his hand.

 

“Come on, your calendar is clear - Anthea told me - and all the head honchos you answer to are on vacation. When else are you ever going to get the time? Besides, your cuticles seem dry.”

 

Mycroft gives him a dry look at that.

 

“And you don't want to come with me?”

 

Mycroft covered in mud, wrapped in seaweed. That Jim will have to miss this sight is a travesty.

 

Jim pats his hand.

 

“This is a you day.”

 

“You're really not making this sound any less suspicious.”

 

Jim pretends to be pretending to not take offense.

 

“I will start zero wars. I won’t even take on new clients until you’re back! I _promise_ not to do anything illegal.”

 

“Do you think I was born yesterday?” Mycroft says of the shoddy phrasing.

 

Jim pulls his trump card and presses a kiss to Mycroft’s hand. The older man’s face goes just a tiny bit soft at that and Jim knows he's secured his victory. See, easy. (Technically, yes. Emotionally, no! Mycroft covered in mud!! Mycroft drenched in oil and rubbed down!! Jim was giving up so much for his endgame here.)

 

.

 

Tier two: all was well, and therefore Sherlock would be bored out of his mind, resorting even to hitting his brother up for cases. Of course, there would be none. But even if there were, Sherlock’d not reach him, because of aforementioned spa day. Ha ha ha.

 

Conclusion: Sherlock would attempt to make contact, late afternoon, having exhausted other options.

 

This was the easy part, Jim thinks as he flops over in Mycroft’s bed for a nap (see! honesty!!), unlike dealing with Andrea.

 

Now, Jim had built up significant goodwill with Mycroft’s assistant, he thinks, but the girl still rarely says more than three words to him on a good day. Still, the cost of her compliance or silence had gone down tremendously since those first days, where she froze him out and refused him entry to her boss’s office (they were surprise decorations!! the sparklers were harmless!!).

 

This time, he had only had to send some goon down to wait in line at a high end sample sale. Her eyes had lit up immediately at the sky high heels he’d plopped down on her desk the day before, and no further questions were asked.

 

She’d even give him a heads up as to when Sherlock finally realized he could see his brother in person if he so wished, and so Jim had a couple of hours to snooze.

 

.

 

Tier three: the events would combine to form the perfect storm of circumstances under which Jim could make his grand reveal - and stake his claim.

 

See, Mycroft wasn't down to DTR.

 

Oh, Jim had tried. Two months ago he slid into the seat next to Mycroft’s in the Queen’s box at the close of the first act and whispered, “so, what exactly are we?” and Mycroft nearly fell over the railing. Three weeks ago he’d been spooning the other man when it occurred to him to ask, “I mean, I’m not saying you have to propose, but will I meet your parents?” and Mycroft had tried to smother him with a pillow. Four days ago he tried again, having had an epiphany mid-meal, and blurt out “Are you seeing other people?”

 

Mycroft had had him thrown out of the restaurant, but, to be fair, he was disguised as the maitre d’ and stolen the seat across from Mycroft the moment the Belgian ambassador went to the washroom.

 

And Jim, well, it wasn’t like Jim was _pressing_ for any specific kind of relationship, but Jim liked categories and archetypes and neat little stories, because, well, if you didn’t know what the rules were, it was awfully hard to break them.

 

.

 

Plan ready, nap had, Jim wakes to the sound of his phone alarm and rolls out of bed bright and ready.

 

He’d have to hop out to the dry cleaners to pick up a hugely gaudy coat he’d inherited from some old widow under the guise of being her precious great-grandson one summer, and then his safety deposit box to pick up a few pieces of jewelry.

 

Upon seeing Jim waltz into his brother’s home dressed like a rich divorcee, brother nowhere to be found, Sherlock was sure to short-circuit.

 

And then Jim would kill two birds with one stone!

 

Jim turns up his jams and puts in his earbuds. With this grand reveal, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would know he was back, everyone would know Mycroft was his, and Mycroft wouldn’t even have to sort through all the difficult work of finding the right words. He was such a good whatever-they-were.

 

Now Jim just had one more errand to run.

 

Struggling his way through the rhododendrons, Jim whisper-shouts “Despereaux!” The sounds of dinner preparation ring through the kitchen and Jim can smell roasted vegetables, but “come on, Despereaux, are you going to choose brussel sprouts over _me?”_

 

He’s rewarded with a responding _“meow!”_ and grins when the fat orange cat comes bounding toward him.

 

“C’mon baby, let’s go surprise Sherlock.”


	3. more extras

 

Sherlock and John bolt for the door, and then it's just Jim and Mycroft left in the foyer. Sensing a change in scene, Despereaux jumps out of Mycroft's arms, and away to the empty bath.

 

Mycroft looks all shiny and well-rested and comfortable down to his bones. Jim latches on, and inhales deeply.

 

"You smell like really expensive salt," Jim mumbles.

 

"So this was your plan all along, hm?"

 

Jim sneezes.

 

Mycroft peers down, holding Jim away at arm's length again.

 

"Did you take your allergy medication?"

 

" _Yes_ ," Jim says defensively. Or at least, he thinks he did. Same thing.

 

Mycroft's expression softens.

 

"Dinner?"

 

Jim smiles.

 

.

 

Jim bolts to the bathroom halfway through dinner to puke up his dinner, terrorizing Despereaux, who'd been hiding in the bathtub, as Jim emptied the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

 

_"Mrow!!"_

 

"Ugh."

 

Jim slumps against the sink cabinet and flushes again. He reaches around weakly for the sink handle from his position on the floor to no avail, and groans.

 

A warm, wet washcloth appears beside him. Jim looks up to see a concerned looking Mycroft hovering, probably wondering whether whatever Jim had was contagious, if not in terms of disease then mood.

 

"I dunno, maybe I'm pregnant," Jim says.

 

Mycroft gives him a very flat look.

 

"Food poisoning," Mycroft guesses, handing Jim the washcloth.

 

"You can't catch food poisoning!" Jim says wiping his face. "Pick me up."

 

Mycroft sighs laboriously but, to Jim's surprise, complies. He's about to ask where Mycroft's taking him but his fidgeting nearly sends them both tumbling hard into the wall, and then the sudden ensuing wave of nausea prevents him from asking any more smart questions. He's plunked down on the bed unceremoniously, and then Mycroft disappears only to return with pajamas moments later.

 

"Just how many hours were you up in a row?" he asks.

 

"What?"

 

"Stress will really put your immune system through the wringer, Jim."

 

Jim looks up, baffled.

 

"I'm not sick."

 

Mycroft just raises an eyebrow, and tucks Jim in.

 

.

 

Jim is sick.

 

He’s spent a day and a half feverish and bedridden and he’s _sweaty_ but he’s _cold_ and it _sucks._

 

“Kitty,” he whines futilely, stretching his arm out to wave about limply in the general direction of where Despereaux and Basher were perched across the room, grooming themselves and ignoring him.

 

He groans, and buries his head under the covers.

 

He must drift, because when Jim opens his eyes again, he desperately needs to empty his bladder but the inane knocking in his head is gone. The room is a few shades darker than it was earlier, so it must have been some hours.

 

He yawns, coming out of the bathroom back into the bedroom, just in time to see the door open and Mycroft backing in.

 

Jim snorts. He’s so glad he’s up to see this moment, this moment of Mycroft carrying a tray with probably chicken soup or at least what looked to be some sort of soup in a bowl, wearing a surgical _face mask_ , and _oven mitts_ for whatever reason and - _oh_. An apron. Not, like, a frilly one, or one of those silly ones with the slogans (Jim made a mental note to switch out more of Mycroft’s kitchen things), it was plain and dark blue, but it was an apron nonetheless.

 

Mycroft freezes in the doorway, caught off guard now that he’s caught sight of Jim’s unbridled glee and goofy grin.

 

“You brought me soup.”

 

Mycroft sighs; no point downplaying his concern, not now when he’s come in looking like this.

 

“I brought you more than soup.”

 

“Ooh! Did you bring me a present? Or is it to do with sex? Is it a sex present?”

 

Mycroft just gives him a funny look, and sets the tray down at the foot of the bed. Jim nearly skips over, and wonders whether he should tell Mycroft he’s actually feeling _much_ better. He’s nearly snot-free, too.

 

_“Mow!”_

 

Jim blinks.

 

“No!” he gasps.

 

Mycroft looks sheepish, but there is an undeniable bulge in the pocket of his apron.

 

“You didn’t.”

 

“I’m afraid I did.”

 

Jim holds out his hands, cupping them together, and Mycroft reaches into the pocket, retrieving a black little ball of fur with just a splash of white across its lower back, plopping it down in Jim’s waiting hands.

 

“Nooooo,” Jim gasps.

 

“I thought we could name it Sher-”

 

“Your naming rights are revoked,” Jim cuts him off emphatically.

 

.

 

_ Undisclosed recipients; _

 

_The orange one isn't bad. SH_

 

_What?_

 

_He is quite dog-like in nature. He comes running when you call. Scratches at the door when one is about to enter. Meows in short, emphatic beats in response to human talk. A tolerable substitute, I think. SH_

 

_William Sherlock Scott Holmes, YOU TAKE THAT BACK._

 

_Despereaux is smarter than any stinkin' mutt._

 

 


End file.
